


Kairos

by CrownandAntler



Category: Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, That's what, Trying my best, i have no idea what im doing, it's been So Long, mama im coming home, marvel here I come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 02:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15571947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownandAntler/pseuds/CrownandAntler
Summary: Exploring the beauty of words.





	1. Eutony - Loki

**Author's Note:**

> Current posted works are a few years old. New additions may come later depending on popularity and demand, so feel free to let me know what you think! CONSTRUCTIVE criticism is always welcome.

_Eutony - (n.) The pleasantness of a word's sound._

 

It was one of those days.

 

Stark tower was imprisoned in its own little kingdom, quartered off by the crushing quilt of rain being rung out overhead. All was dark and all was quiet. Perfect weather to settle down in the library and catch up on reading.

 

You knew what novel you wanted to tackle the moment you stepped through the doors and the sweet scent of paper and ink flooded you. The place on the shelf was marked, but when you approached it, you were shocked to find nude shelf space, a hole in the cozy cuddling of fiction. Well, never mind that. You could always read another, and save the taken for another day. But when you stepped around the corner to find your backup, you found it too was gone. Bewildered, you scurried around the library, only to discover that every book you had marked off with sticky notes was missing.

 

“Seriously?” you huffed. “Tony, I swear to god if this is your idea of a joke!” The threat was left unfinished as you turned on your heel and sped towards the lounge area with your blood close to boiling. It was a rainy day! Perfect for reading, and someone had to go and ruin it for you! All the books you wanted, every single one. Missing! The least this prankster could have done was leave you one, just one morsel of material for you to lose yourself in, that was all you asked--

 

The sight before you froze you in your tracks. Loki. Sitting in one of the plush chairs of the library, holding a book delicately in his hands. Frankly, it was one of the most stunning sights you'd ever laid eyes on; there was this tall, lithe, angel of a man, haloed by the lamp on the table at his side, limned in gold, breathing shallow and slow like deep slumber. His lips moved with some of his silent reading, corners shifting with smiles and frowns at the story unfolding in his lap. His long fingers obstructed the title, but you could make out the scrawl of the author along the bottom of the hardcover: Gustave Flaubent. And you knew that cover anywhere. He was reading _Bouvard and Pauchet_ , the very book you had come to the library so eager to dive into. There were other books stacked carefully on the table beside him— _the Divine Comedy, the Invention of Morel, Complete Works of Poe, Animal Farm_ —all of them classics in their own right, and suddenly you couldn't stop the warm smile spreading across your face. Now it made sense. Some time ago, Loki had approached you inquiring about Midguardian literature. While you were still wary of the emerald man following his attempt to take over the world, literature was a love you held near and dear to your heart and you were more than willing to make recommendations. Somewhere along the line, you had mentioned your reading list. And Loki must have found it.

 

“Do you intend to stand there long, Lady [Name]?” he asks suddenly. His voice is soft and dreamy, as he's only half out of the world that his eyes continue to scan over. “Or will you be joining me?” Pulled from your daze, you walk closer and lean comfortably over his shoulder. Your closeness surprises him enough for him to send you a curious glance through his peripheral.

 

“Do you like it?” you ask gently. “I haven't actually gotten to read any Gustave yet. But I've always heard good things.”

 

One of those smirks glides across his face. In the dim light, dressed so casually, with those precious collections of words in his hands and you leaning close he almost seems content. Happy, even. But you couldn't be sure.

 

“Your taste is intriguing,” he says simply. From what you know of his reading habits, Loki holds a fondness for philosophy and religion—even of the Midguardian nature. It's a bit of a surprise to see him delving into Satire—you didn't even know he liked satire—but if anyone was witty and intelligent enough to keep up, you supposed it was him.

 

You return the expression. “That's not bad though, right?”

 

He scans a few more lines before you catch the corners of his mouth tipping back again, this time with a genuine smile. “No, not at all.”

 

“Well, that's good. I'll leave you to enjoy them.” If you stayed there too much longer, you thought you might wind up a puddle at his feet. Loki was a breathtaking figure as it was, the last thing you needed was to see him lost to his reading and wind up falling head over heels for him. So you pulled away, nodding, content that the books were at least being treated well rather than just hidden as some sort of prank. You didn't get far before his voice reached you again.

 

“Lady [Name]. Had you not come for these?” When you turn to look at him, that smirk is back, luring and drawing you towards his snare. He motions to the stack of books with a low nod.

 

“You're already reading them. I'll find something else for now,” you replied with a little shrug.

 

He wouldn't accept that. “Come sit,” he said, making a small gesture with one hand. “Why don't you let me read to you?” The offer made your heart skip a beat. Hearing his voice, the sounds he made speaking the delicious words of the world to you—could you handle such a paradise? Was this a trap in any way?

 

“Lady [Name]?”

 

The temptation was too much.

 

Once you were seated in the chair close by, his mouth fed your eager ears spoonfuls of ensorcelled honey and comet tails of woven spider silk. In short, there was no escape. “In the summer of 1872, the fifty-year-old Flaubert wrote to the literary salonist Edma Roger des Genettes...”

 

And you weren't all that sure you minded.

 


	2. Sillage - Clint

_Sillage. (n.)_ _The scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in water, the impression made in space after someone or something had been and gone._

 

Somewhere along the line, movie time had turned into nap time.

 

When you cracked open one heavy eye, the room was mostly dark, save for the glow of the screen. The black and white film was turned down low, leaving only murmurs too soft to run the risk of rousing anyone from their sleep. Steve was awake still, along with Bucky, but they were too lost in their nostalgia to mind the stillness. Thor was asleep on the opposite couch, taking most of the space. Bruce occupied what was left. Tony's peaceful snoring came from somewhere in the general vicinity of the minibar. Natasha seemed still in her seat next to you, but you weren't about to try to move simply to see if she was unconscious: Clint's strong shoulder was much too comfortable a pillow to yield for that. Not to mention his cheek was resting atop the crown of your skull, chest seesawing up and down in a comforting rhythm, and his scent—oh his scent—gently overpowering you like the rock and pitch of ocean tide and the opulence of a late summer bloom.

 

You could have stayed there forever.

 

_Agent Barton, report, with Agent Romanov._

 

The voice cut through his earpiece—he hadn't taken it out, apparently—as a faint garble, but it was close enough for you to manage the words. Your eyes slid closed again, anxious for Clint's leaving, but too tired, too weak to do anything more than just lay against him and hope your warmth would compel him to stay.

 

Clint shifted slowly and stretched his legs without disturbing your position. “You got it right?” Natasha asked, voice just below a whisper.

 

“Yeah, I heard. I just need five to grab everything,” he replied just as softly. He shifted more, but didn't try to rise or to wake you. “Give me a hand, I don't want to wake [Name],” he finally added.

 

Having your eyes closed left the remainder of your senses hyper-aware. So when Natasha's hands gently slid under your head and shoulder, you instantly knew the lithe digits were hers. When Clint moved away, he took you from her, cradling your side in one of this strong arms and lowering you to the length of the now mostly unoccupied love seat. He hovered above you for a few moments, probably just checking that you were comfortable and definitely still asleep.

 

“I'll take her to her room if she doesn't wake up soon,” Steve piped in softly.

 

Neither Clint nor Natasha said anything more. Their feet moved around for a minute or so while they gathered their things. Just before they left, there was a calloused warmth on your head, petting your hair, and Clint whispered in the most soothing of voices, “Goodnight, [Name].” Then he and Natasha were gone, leaving you with only the lingering traces of his comforting balm.

 


	3. Querencia - Bucky

_Querencia. (n.)_ _A place from which one's strength is drawn; where one feels at home_

 

The downpour left about two feet of visibility ahead of any poor soul who found themselves moving through the bathing city.

 

You were one of those poor souls: on the night of the worst storm of the month, your boss had asked you to work an extra hour. The last-minute request bothered you, but it counted as overtime and your inner-city apartment wasn't cheap, so who were you to turn away the extra cash? Working that extra hour had caused you to miss your usual bus ride home, but luckily there was another bus stop just a few blocks out of your way. If it stuck to its schedule, that bus would arrive soon enough to save you some dignity, and you had an umbrella large enough to keep your upper body reasonably dry until the bus could swoop into your rescue.

 

By the time you reached the bench at the bus stop, your day had deviated far enough from its intended course enough for you to be sure it couldn't get much worse. In a way, you were wrong.

 

It was probably a good five minutes that you stood next to the bus stop sign, shivering and praying for your ride, before you noticed him—in your defense, you hadn't considered taking the bench to begin with because your ass was wet enough as things were. When you did, you were horrified to find the poor guy soaked to the bone. He was slouched forward a bit, face towards the pavement while his wrists hung weakly off his knees. His jacket, his jeans, his hat, all drenched. And still taking more of the onslaught. His shaggy hair was stuck to his jaw and the nape of his neck. How long had he been sitting there?

 

“Hello?” You called out softly. He made no move to respond, but you assumed he simply hadn't heard your hesitant voice over the rain. You tried again, louder. “Sir? Sir, are you alright?” There was the faintest of movements, a twitch of his head. He'd heard you, but only shifted his face farther away. His hands lifted slowly into his line of sight, and he just stared at them. The movement let you catch a glint of reflection from his covered arm. A prosthetic, maybe? And this poor man seemed so broken, so lost.

 

It was unlike you to take risks; you didn't know this man, didn't know if he was dangerous. He could be luring you into a trap. But you had also never seen a person manage to look more pitiful than an unloved puppy, and here this man sat.

 

It only took two long strides to put you next to him. You could see his shoulders tense under his jacket, his wide torso lean ever so slightly away—maybe out of fear. But before you gave him another moment to get up and run, or react in any other way, you sat gently on the bench next to him and sacrificed your dryness to hold your umbrella out over his huddled form.

 

He moved again, this time lifting his head to the smallest possible degree that still afforded him to see you through his dripping hair. He looked up, at the pink and white polka dot umbrella, then to your now soaked form. He couldn't remember a time when anyone ever looked so comfortable at his side.

 

“I'm [Name],” you began gently. “And, I know you can't actually get sick just from being wet, but I don't think that means you should be subjecting yourself to it.”

 

The man offered only silence as his response, and stared at you with what you could only assume was shock. After all, there was no telling when the last time anyone showed this man kindness was. Some moments later you cleared your throat and just decided to continue. “Sir,” his hair shifted, and you caught a look at one of his tired but attentive eyes. “I don't...usually do this. But I'm on my way home. Would you like to join me? You can clean up, and I think I have some spare men's clothes. I'm having Chinese for dinner. Do you like Chinese?” As ridiculous as it was, you were genuinely concerned about him not liking Chinese. It was far from safe for a single woman living alone to bring a strange man home, even if it was for the sake of helping. But you wanted to help him. You needed to. And what if he liked Greek better than Chinese? Or maybe Thai....

 

The slow, stiff shift of his jaw brought your wandering mind back. His far hand kept sliding up and down the wet thigh of his pants anxiously. “You're being very foolish,” he finally said. You were surprised at how alluring the rough vibrato of his voice was. “It's not safe for you, as a woman, to offer that.” Then he turned his head away, after pushing the umbrella away gently with the back of his hand.

 

But you persisted and returned the umbrella to its previous position. “I know,” you said. “But I just need to help you. Or at least offer to.”

 

“Why?”  


Now it was your turn to pause. For a long minute, he remained disinterested, wet gaze staring off into the dark distance and foggy pertrichor. But it then appeared that your silence, the silence of the first gentle human to care in what appeared to be his entire existence, bothered him. He turned towards you, wanting to urge you to finish but instead just grinding his teeth. When you looked into his numb irises, you finally answered. “I don't know. I just...need to. I think you need me to.”

 

The small moment building between your unwavering gazes was cut short by the bus pulling up to the sign. The puddle along the end of the sidewalk splashed up to your legs from the force of the tires, and you stood slowly. He watched you. Watched you leave the umbrella over him even while the rain came down harder and the bus waited impatiently. You were so calm, so patient with your kindness while his tired and overwhelmed mind tried to process.

 

He decided that you were right. He needed this. Needed you.

 

Hesitant, and a little wary of physical contact, he reached forward and put his hand over yours on the umbrella handle. When he stood, he moved in closer and brought the umbrella over the both of you.

 

“My name is Bucky.”

 

 


	4. Latibule - Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can be read as a part-two to the previous Bucky chapter.

_Latibule. (n.) A hiding place; a place of safety and comfort._

 

Bucky was having one of his bad nights.

 

You could tell by the way his feet moved heavily and dutifully around on the other side of your bedroom door. Actually, you could hear him clear across the house, dragging a kitchen chair not-so-ceremoniously into the den. You lay for a few minutes, listening to him before the silence settled back down with the dust and you pushed yourself out of the warmth of your bed.

 

When you slowly opened your door and shuffled down the hall, he was sitting in a shadowed corner of the room, perched on that chair, and facing the door. A pistol was in his hand. The same one he had shown up at your house with a few months ago. At the time the gun had terrified you, mostly because it was aimed at your temple while he urged you to let him hide in your home for the night and keep quiet. But now you knew Bucky—this poor, handsome, confused man—and you didn't mind guns of any sort as long as he was on the other end.

 

“Buck?” you whispered tiredly. He flinched just a bit and tore his eyes away from the front door to look sorrowfully at you. “Did you have a nightmare?” The pause before his response was filled not by silence but by a foreboding brontide. The thunderstorm didn't exactly ease the atmosphere.

 

“Yeah,” he said simply. His eyes were still composed, still Bucky, but you knew how he struggled with the Winter Soldier, with Hydra and the fear they had instilled. His eyes snapped back to the door and his fingers tightened on the neoprene of the semiautomatic. This particular reaction had occurred a few times before. Bucky wouldn't get any sleep like this: he'd sit up all night waiting on the illusion that someone would bust in to purloin him back to his torment.

 

“Bucky,” you spoke again, moving closer and putting your hand gently on the flesh of his bare shoulder. He only glanced at you, mouth pulled in an ashamed, thin line. “Bucky, come to bed with me.” Even through the dark you saw red dust his hardened face. Bucky had slept in your bed a few other times, but the thought still made him antsy and nervous. Not just because of the way he screamed out in his sleep, or because he might hurt you, but because you were a vibrant, kind, and beautiful woman and he would be extremely close to you in that full-size bed of yours. But he also knew that it helped with the nightmares. “Come on, please. You need to rest.” For a long moment, you thought maybe he was ignoring you. Then, he slowly put the gun down on the coffee table and rose to his feet. He let himself be led back to your room, where the covers were still warm and safe.

 

Bucky laid on his back, stiff as a board, unwilling to touch you and risk making you uncomfortable. On the contrary, you were more than alright with the general situation and laid comfortably on your side, facing him. Just before you settled down you laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Goodnight Bucky. Sweet dreams—I'll be right here.” His face went red again, but this time the darkness not only hid his embarrassment but emboldened him. The next second he was on his side, wrapping his arms securely around your torso and holding you close.

 

His affectionate embrace surprised you, but you were more than willing to return his warmth and repaid the embrace with one of your own. His shoulders were so much wider than your own—and the stockiness of that metal arm certainly didn't help—but you could hear his nervous heartbeat through the cage of his chest and that more than made up for any strain you endured to draw yourself closer. With one more deep, relaxing inhale, you shut your eyes. Just before you fell asleep you whispered to Bucky while brushing your fingers across his bare back, “You're always welcome here, Bucky. I just want you to know that.”

 

And you thought, maybe, just maybe, he had pressed his smiling lips to your hairline and whispered the most peaceful thank you you had ever received. Then you slept.

 


	5. Cicatrize - Tony

_Cicatrize. (v.) To find healing_ by _the process of forming scars._

 

You had returned from your mission some time ago, and were still in the shower.

 

The water was cranked all the way up to scalding, and your skin was red from being cooked for so long, but you were beyond caring at this point. This shower wasn't meant to calm you after a job well done. It was meant to sanitize and sterilize, to destroy any trace of the touches that had been given to you earlier in the night.

 

It had been a simple enough mission, really. You just weren't usually an undercover agent—that was typically Natasha's role. But her particular skill set had been needed elsewhere during the mission, and you were by no means incapable of wooing the target just as well, so you went in her stead. In hindsight, it was foolish of yourself to expect it to have gone any differently, but now it was too late to convince yourself not to be bothered by it. Agent or not, you were far from okay with how the man had become so touchy once you lied and beguiled your way into his private office. You retained your innocence, thanks to your quick work with planting the bugs whenever his eyes slid closed, but that didn't stop you from feeling filthy everywhere his hands and teeth had weighed anchor. Only Director Fury and Natasha knew about your role, and you always took a shower once you returned to the tower after a mission anyway, so none of the others questioned your quick disappearance into your floor. And after all, The information those bugs would steal would do a lot for SHIELD—and by extension, Tony—so a small celebration was underway, courtesy of Ironman himself.

 

They were probably still partying.

 

JARVIS piped up suddenly, breaking you from your disheartened thoughts. “Pardon, Miss [Name]. Mr. Stark is inquiring to your condition.”

 

You grimaced a bit and angrily dolloped body wash onto your scrubber and lathered yourself again. “I'm fine, Jarvis. Please tell Tony to leave me alone.” You spat a curse under your breath. By the time you had washed and rinsed yet another time, you were still grumbling. “A woman can't take a thirty-minute shower without everyone getting their panties in a bunch.”

 

“Actually, you're pushing two hours.” The instantly recognizable, snark-riddled tone of Tony suddenly cut through and made your screech with surprise. You looked through the opaque glass—he couldn't get a good view of your nude body if he tried—with a rageful scowl.

 

“Tony, what the actual fuck!” You could tell from the mangled, hallucinogenic-like image of his form that he was leaning comfortably against the door frame across the room. Probably with a scotch in his hand.

 

“I think that should be my line. Aren't agents supposed to be difficult to sneak up on?” As if your night wasn't bad enough already. Now you had to put up with Tony.

 

“Sorry for trying to relax, asshole. Now, if you would kindly get the hell out?”

 

“No can do, doll,” he said lucidly. You hardly had time to let out a low growl of irritation before he spoke again. “So are you gonna tell me why you're hiking up my water bill or what?” Ignoring him wasn't your best option, that much you knew from past experiences, but what he said sent another wave of disturbing flashbacks shooting through the blackness your eyelids reaped whenever you dared to blink. This left the room filled with only the noise of the high-pressure shower head.

 

“Alright,” he suddenly began again. “We can do this the hard way.”

 

When he said that, you were expecting him to leave in order to plot ways to get you to talk. But no. Rather, the next instant the door to the shower was suddenly flung open. You managed not to scream, but you felt your fist connect with flesh before he managed to pin you against the shower wall. When the steam flooded out through the open door enough for you to see, you realized that Tony had wrapped a large, fluffy towel around you in the midst of his move, and now had you wrapped securely in his arms. He didn't seem too bothered by the fact that he was standing in the middle of the shower with all his clothes on, or that he'd probably have a bruise from where you'd socked him in the cheek. Between the towel wrapped around you and the way he was staring right at your face, there wasn't any room to suspect he had tried to look at your naked body.

 

It was a pleasant surprise in one way. But in another, why would he want to? You felt pretty filthy, pretty ugly right about now.

 

“Where'd he touch you?” he asked, completely stunning you.

 

“Tony--”

 

“Do you really think that after what a big deal Fury made out of this mission that I wouldn't go looking into it? I already hacked into the S.H.I.E.L.D. system and read all about it. And I'm a guy, so it's pretty obvious what your part of the mission would entail. So let me repeat myself: where did he touch you?”

 

Now you were speechless. There were absolutely no words to express the chaos of emotions that had just hit you: relief, because someone saved you the embarrassment of explaining yourself; sadness, because now you couldn't deny it; anger, because was it really any of his damn business; and overwhelming joy, because he cared enough to ask how instead of why.

 

You didn't realize there were tears dripping from your eyes until Tony sighed and told Jarvis to turn the shower off while lifting you off your feet and carrying you out to your room. Somehow you managed to choke out, “W-what are you doing?”

 

Tony cast you a glance through his peripheral, then let a soft smirk slip over his features. “We're gonna pick out something cute for you to wear to bed, then I'm gonna get the scotch and rum, and we're gonna get wasted while watching really shitty movies. Somewhere along the way, you'll spill the beans. Until then I'm gonna make you feel like a damn princess.”

 

Bad movies and alcohol. Only Tony would think to treat a princess like that. But in the moments it took him to set you down at the edge of your bed and walk over to your closet to find “something cute for you to wear to bed”—still dripping water, you might add—you realized that you wouldn't have it any other way.

 


	6. Loobily - Drax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the best dad award goes to...

_Loobily. (adv.) Awkwardly, clumsily._

 

Being sick in space was the worst.

 

Somehow, you had come down with a human case of the flu after slinking around a thriving junker planet for valuables to sell with Peter. (Said self-proclaimed Star Lord was just fine.) As for why a human illness was in the wrong galaxy, well, that was anyone's guess. As soon as your fever appeared, Peter set the Milano for Zandar, where you could get medical help from professionals—professionals who would work for free because Peter was going to play the “saved your planet from that bitch Ronan” card—but in the meantime you just had to suck it up and busy yourself with things on the Milano. At the moment, that entailed drunkenly wobbling your way down the steps, to the commons area. Near the bottom of the steps you took a fall, all flailing limbs and landing in a contorted heap on the floor. Baby Groot, who was still in his pot on the table, with his big heart, looked at you with concern. Drax on the other hand....

 

“Why do you stumble like a newborn quadruped, woman? Have you forgotten how to use those frail legs?”

 

“Nice to see you too, Drax,” you shot back weakly, pushing yourself up again. You attempted a halfhearted glare, but your face was so red from your burning fever that in the end you just seemed horribly embarrassed.

 

“I did not greet you,” he retorted with harsh confusion. He would never admit to being confused, so instead he just sounded angry and offended. This was going to be a conversation chocked full of miscommunication. Joy.

 

By the time you stumbled over to the table and took a seat (baby Groot greeting your sickly form with his biggest smile and an adorable wave) Drax had gone from sharpening his knife to simply staring at you in delight. “Your unskillful attempts at walking are most entertaining. Continue,” he told you.

 

You snorted, resting your throbbing head in your hands. “I'm trying to do as little walking as possible, Drax. So, sorry to tell you I won't be serving as your entertainer for some time. Not until I've kicked this dumb virus out of my system, anyways.” The last bit was more to yourself than anyone, but your voice was so quiet and strained that it was difficult to tell conversation from self-mutterings.

 

“What ails you?” He then asked. That almost sounded like concern. “And who laid such wicked disease on your weak body?” Drax folded his arms on the table and leaned against it. Baby Groot was between the two of you, leaving him to turn his head systematically for the conversation like one would during a tennis match.

 

For once, you smiled at the man, this mound of muscle and testosterone. “I'm just sick, Drax. It's a pretty common illness for humans, nothing to get too worked up about. The fever is the worst of it. Makes me dizzy. And my eyes feel like they're boiling. My muscles are achy, too. But like I said, it's not much to worry about, as long as my fever doesn't get out of hand. The doctors on Zandar--”

 

It was at this moment that you noticed Drax leaving the room. You were so lucky to know a man as attentive and caring as him. (You felt the sarcasm oozing out of your ears as you thought this.) You huffed and resigned yourself to sitting at the table until your legs ached for movement. But a few moments later, Drax returned, his steps loudly echoing off the floors. You had only just looked up at him when a cold, wet rag slapped you in the face.

 

“Dude what the hell--” you snapped, pulling the dripping thing off your face. Drax cut you off when he slung you up into his grip. He only needed one hand to hold you up, but he carried you bridal style back to your bed and set you down there. “What are you doing?”

 

He none too gently folded the rag and placed it back on your forehead. “You will sleep. Being ill and weak is for children. I will treat you as such. Should you need anything, you will tell me. Otherwise, you will sleep.” After saying this, Drax pulled a chair over, sat not two arms' lengths away from the bed, and set back to cleaning and sharpening his knives. At least for a few minutes, you simply stared at him, bewildered. When he caught you looking at him, he held your gaze and warned, in a much softer voice than usual, “Sleep, [Name.]”

 

Drax had never called you by your name before. Was he seriously worried?

 

Your heart felt warmed by the realization, and you decided that maybe sleeping wasn't such a bad idea. At least for a little while.

 


End file.
